


To Kill Time and Injure Eternity

by WillowPerpetua



Category: Marvel, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: AU: If Alexander Pierce raised Black Widow, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Minor Character Death, Sexual Content, Slow Build, dysfunctional family dynamics, set in the 1970s kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-14
Updated: 2014-10-30
Packaged: 2018-02-17 09:12:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 16,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2304416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WillowPerpetua/pseuds/WillowPerpetua
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Natalia Romanova was an accident of science-- almost ageless.<br/>James Buchanan Barnes was ripped from his time and his memories.<br/>They had something in common: their keeper. </p><p>Natalia Alianova Romanova was made, not born.<br/>The petri dishes and test tubes were lovingly handled by scientists with huge emotional investment in their work, but not in the product of that work. Nine months later, an orphan came screaming into a life of cold science and brutality. To them, she was only a number. To the world, she was alive. She was a success.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Fountain of Youth

**1928 Stalingrad**

      Natalia Alianova Romanova was made, not born.   
      The petri dishes and test tubes were lovingly handled by scientists with huge emotional investment in their work, but not in the product of that work. Nine months later, an orphan came screaming into a life of cold science and brutality. To them, she was only a number. To the world, she was alive. She was a success.   


**1933**

      Five years later, she woke to the scent of smoke, her eyes flooded with tears, throat burning. There was no panic ringing in her mind, only survival. Already, Natalia had learned to trust the instincts that drove her to keep breathing at any cost. She dragged the blanket behind her, used it to cover her mouth and nose, to wipe the tears streaming down her face. The smoke billowed in plumes around her throughout the building. She saw no one; no scientists ran to save their work, no men with guns stood above her, illuminated by the flashing red lights, only one small girl walked alone through the hallway with a blanket and bare feet.   
She wondered if it was one of their tricks.

      Outside, in the dark and the snow, she saw that half of the building where the scientists worked in their lab coats, with their needles and lists, was missing. It had been replaced by a hollow cave, blackened and raw. If buildings could hurt, this one was dying.  

      The clip clop of horse’s hooves drew her attention. The rag man drove his sleepy way up the street toward her, watching the smoke rise into the air. 

      “Are you alright, little girl?” he asked. She did not answer yes or no, but climbed into the seat next to him. She would not look back at the place where she was born. She did not look back.

 

**1937 St. Petersburg**

      Natalia did what she was born to do. She survived. The desolation left in place after the Great War and the Revolution made gaps for orphans and street urchins to fill. No one spared a second glance for her on the street. She learned to steal and to listen and how to be invisible.   
  
      The first time that she killed, Natalia Romanova looked down at the body without remorse until the sound of someone else closed in on her in the alley.   
A woman in a thick fur coat crouched down to meet her eyes. She did not glance at the corpse next to them, blood staining the snow in patches.   
  
      “Why did you do that?” The woman asked her.   
  
      “He hurts girls.” She answered, unafraid.  
  
      “How do you know that?”  
  
       “I have seen him.”   
  
      “This was sloppy.” The woman looked at the body again, brought her warm hand to the little frozen ones. Natalia did not flinch or pull away when she touched her hands.   
  
      “Here,” the woman said, guiding her. “You stabbed him in the chest, but you missed the heart. You had to stab him three more times before you got it right. You are lucky that he was old and slow. Now, here is the heart.” She showed her, their hands mixed in the blood pooled in the dead man’s jacket. “And this, in the leg, is where you should cut, because you are so small.”   
  
      “What about the neck?” Natalia asked. The woman laughed, and it was the kind of startled laugh that comes out true, rather than a forced laugh to placate a child.   
  
      “Give it time. You will work your way up. I am very sure.” The woman showed Natalia how to wash her hands in the snow, how to leave a body so that it would look like somebody else had made it. She took two pairs of gloves from her bag, one for herself and a smaller pair for Natalia.   
  
      “Will you come with me?” It was not a question, of course.  
  
  
 **The Red Room**  
  
      Natalia learned many things from Petra, with the fine fur coats and silk gloves. The most important lesson was that kindness could be a weapon.   
      The Red Room acquired her in the same way they would acquire a coveted painting. She understood this, her novelty and her value. Through Petra’s kindness and the promise of education, they bought her from the streets. It was a bargain, she knew. It made Natalia’s skin crawl to know that she was so easily bought, but each bite of a dinner that she did not have to steal or fight for drove her farther into the arms of the Red Room.   
  
      At nine years old, she still looked five. Petra withdrew the needle from the crook of Natalia’s arm and shook her head, placing the bandage there to catch the drops of blood bubbling to the surface.   
  
      “You are an anomaly.” Petra said.   
  
      “Yes.” Natalia replied. “But I am your anomaly.”   
  
      Petra smiled and kissed Natalia’s nose.   
  
       Four bullets found their way into Petra’s core the next morning on their daily walk. The blood stained the snow like roses. Natalia did not cry when she placed her hands into the red weeping from Petra’s heart as it slowed and stopped.   
  
      Her body grew slowly, but her mind raced ahead. Decades passed, but Natalia appeared to have aged no more than five or six years. The Red Room did not isolate Natalia from the world and all of its goings on entirely. She was the perfect picture of innocence, able to infiltrate the most delicate situations and remove the most sensitive information. Adults have the unfortunate habit of believing that the children around them hear only half of what is said in their presence and understand none of it. This is never the case, but especially not so when Natalia was in the vicinity.  
    
      When they were not using her unique talents for gathering intelligence, they kept Natalia away from the world while it raged in battle after battle. They were saving her for something, but whether they were keeping her protected or protecting something bigger, she was never sure.   
  
      She aged at a glacial pace, frustrated in her palace and her prison. Keepers entered her life and left it again. None did so in quite the same way as Petra; she had been a recruiter and she had overstepped the boundaries of that title. She had been careless. It was a final lesson for Natalia— _never let them see you change roles._

  
 **1971**  
       
      Natalia heard the explosions, the rattle of gunfire, and shouts in so many different languages from the floors above her home in the basement tunnels of the Red Room encampment. She did not move from her spot on the couch, sliding her hand through the velvet under her fingers. They would come for her whenever they would come. She was sure that whoever arrived to beat down her door would be in for an unpleasant surprise.   
  
      An eerie quiet settled over her rooms. The sounds from the bloodbath above faded away, signaling the swift end to a battle badly fought. It should have gone on longer, she thought. Scowling to herself, she rose from her seat. The knock on the door was familiar, almost friendly.   
  
      Her back to the wall, not the door, she answered. “If you’ve come to kill me, knocking won’t make it easier.”   
     
      “Killing you would be awfully foolish, since we just killed all those men upstairs to get you out of here.” The voice on the other side of the door replied. American. Mid thirties. That was all she could tell without a visual.   
  
      “That is exactly what somebody with plans to kill me would say.” She said.  
   
      “You’re very clever.”   
  
      She did not reply. She was clever—clever enough to know not to open the door for a little flattery, clever enough to know that if she opened the door, terrible things might happen to her, clever enough to know that if she did not open the door, she would be trapped down here when they left and if that happened she would be dead within a week.   
She opened the door. The man on the other side of the door did not smile. His stern jaw and sharp eyes fixed her with a calculating stare. Behind him, a team of men wearing heavy armor held guns but did not aim them at her.   
  
      “My name is Alexander Pierce, and I would like to speak with you about a group called HYDRA.” The man said. Natalia Romanova watched the way his mouth tightened at the corners as if he were holding back a smile. She saw the way his back straightened. Pride. Ambition. Honesty.   
_Yes,_ She thought, _the Red Room is gone._ She did not look back.


	2. “Time is a game played beautifully by children.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natalia Romanova becomes Natasha Romanov and adjusts to life with Alexander Pierce and his family. Pierce introduces Natasha to all the benefits that HYDRA has to offer, along with a haunting piece of memorabilia from his own past. 
> 
> “I think that I will die someday.” She said, tilting her head to the side, a red lock of hair blowing in the morning breeze. “I might die tomorrow or I might die a hundred years from now. All I know is that I do not want to spend the rest of my life looking like a child.”

“Time is a game played beautifully by children.”   
― Heraclitus,  _Fragments_  
  
 **International Airspace**  
 **1971**

      Pierce was not Petra, he was the bullet that killed her.   
      Truly, Natalia knew the impossibility of that thought. Pierce had not been born when Petra died in the snow in St. Petersburg. Still, Natalia knew there were always and would always be men like Pierce—men who knew every cog in the machine that made the world turn. She found that power comforting as they flew across the air above the Atlantic Ocean together. She felt free with him, seeing the world from his vantage point for the first time: from above.   
      It was beautiful in the sky.  
  
      “What about Natasha?” Pierce asked.  
  
      “For me?” She asked.  
  
      “You will need an alias. I assume you would like something familiar.”   
  
      “Natasha will be fine.” She said. There was nothing else to say.   
  
      “I have a daughter about your age.” Pierce said.   
  
      “No, you don’t.” Her lip curled into a smile at the corner.   
  
      “No, I suppose not.” Pierce mused. “I have a young daughter. For the sake of appearances, we will say that you are cousins. I hope you find this arrangement agreeable.”   
Natasha considered this for a moment. Except for the children in rags who she fought for crumbs and scraps of meat in frozen alleys before the Red Room found her, she had never spent time around another child. Her peers were adults, older than Pierce, now, if they lived to see adulthood.   
  
      “How old are you?” Pierce asked.   
  
      “I have been alive for forty-three years. I speak fifteen languages. I can play twelve instruments. I was trained in ballet. I understand complex mathematics. Mentally, I am quite old. Physically, I am eleven. Emotionally, I am somewhere in the middle.” She paused and watched the tops of the clouds from the jet window. “How old are you?” She asked, finally.  
  
      “Thirty five.” He said. The roar of the jet engine was a whisper compared to the volume of his thoughts. Natasha would be his greatest creation, and that, Pierce considered, was saying something.   
  
  
**Washington DC**  
  
       “It is time to grow up, Natasha.”   
  
       Alexander Pierce sat with Natalia, Natasha now, watching the sunrise from the patio of his home. Inside, his wife and child slept soundly, unaware of the killers waiting to be let in.   
  
      “The Red Room thought they had the fountain of youth in my genetic code.” She said, unmoved. It had been a long time since she believed it as well.  
  
      “What do you think?” Pierce asked.  
     
      “I think that I will die someday.” She said, tilting her head to the side, a red lock of hair blowing in the morning breeze. “I might die tomorrow or I might die a hundred years from now. All I know is that I do not want to spend the rest of my life looking like a child.”  
  
     Pierce blinked for a fraction of a second longer than he usual, and Natasha saw pain register across his face. “Good.” He said. “We will begin treatment this afternoon. In the meantime, let’s get you settled in. It is going to be a big adjustment.”   
  
      Annie was the adjustment. She was twelve years old, she was selfish in all the ways that rich, childish American girls might be, and she was dying. The cousin who was not her cousin burst into tears at the breakfast table upon her father’s homecoming. She was glad to see her father again, but not the beautiful girl with crimson hair walking steadily by his side.   
        
      Natasha understood her pain. Death and dying were subjects with which she was deeply, intimately acquainted. She could not show her understanding. Neither Pierce’s wife nor his daughter had clearance to access Natasha’s identity. So she ate breakfast in silence that morning, listening to sobs and wails through the walls.  It was not the first time Natasha had eaten a meal to the sound of someone else’s tears, nor the first time Annie had cried through breakfast.

     

      After the morning’s disastrous introduction, Pierce ferried Natasha away from his family toward the safety and comfort of the laboratory that had been designed especially for her.   
  
      “It has all the modern conveniences.” He said as they passed hulking machinery, looming over their heads. “HYDRA has spared no expense.”    
  
      “What are you going to do?” She asked, sitting on the table while a nurse in a crisp white dress took her blood pressure.   
  
      “The serum will temporarily boost your metabolism and ignite hormonal changes. In a nutshell, it will artificially induce puberty.” Pierce said.   
  
      “Fine.” Her eyes bounced around the room, passed over machines and needles. It was not exactly fine.  
  
      “The animal trials have been quite successful.” He continued.   
  
      “And if your trials had been unsuccessful?” She asked, not needing to finish the question.  
  
      “I assure you, Natasha. The procedure is quite safe. Your health is my top priority.” He said as the nurse began an IV.   
  
      He stayed with her while she underwent treatment. What would have been a slow and boring process became a weekly event which they both anticipated with pleasure. Natasha brought tomes of Tolstoy or Dostoyevsky and read them to him as they were meant to be heard, in the original Russian. Pierce listened to the quiet monotone over the constant beeping of the medical equipment and was lulled, if only temporarily, into a meditative state.

      The sound of Natasha’s words sent pierce back a decade in his mind to time spent with a different HYDRA acquisition. He had been a younger man, better suited to field missions in the darkest of shadows. Physically, his charge appeared no older than he had been at the time, twenty-six at most. The asset arrived from the vaults in a chamber so overrun with ice that it had to be chipped away with picks. He had been well preserved.   
      They called him the Winter Soldier.   
  
      Tensions between the U.S. and the Soviets were running at colossal heights, threatening to boil over into a nuclear disaster of untold proportions. Pierce’s charge was perfect for giving the world a push in one direction or another. He was untraceable, without alliances, and without mercy. It was Pierce who pulled the humanity from the asset each time he was withdrawn from his frozen tube, the sleep of cryostasis unsticking his mind for moments, leaving him fragile and exposed. There was always a moment or two when the ruthless killer with whom Pierce had traveled the globe looked at him through the eyes of a lost child.   
  
      It was not lost on him that when Natasha looked at him with her eyes—eyes that should have been lost and childish—he saw nothing but a killer peering out from inside of them. It unnerved him in a way that he seldom felt after thirteen years in his line of business.

        
  
      “There is somebody I want you to meet.” Pierce said to Natasha when the cocktail of hormones finished dripping through her IV. Already, something about her had shifted. She looked older around the mouth and eyes, her cheeks had thinned by a fraction of a degree. Natasha felt no change at all. She nodded, waiting for the nurse to remove the IV from vein.   
  
      Leaving the medical wing, Natasha did not spare a glance at the machinery that gave her pause when they entered. “Is this a meeting?” She asked, smoothing down her dress, a hand-me-down from Annie, too big and too loud.   
  
      “Not exactly.” Pierce said, keeping his chin raised, eyes not meeting Natasha’s. She felt fear pool in her gut. He led her to the south wing, an elevator, the basement, another elevator, another basement. By the time they arrived at a thick door where Pierce entered the code 1-9-4-3 to gain access, she had imagined every scenario possible.  
  
      What she had not imagined was an empty room, except for a cylindrical chamber, or the _whoosh-groan_ of the vents and pumps which operated it. She had never pictured the way the room locked from the outside so heavily, to keep something in, rather than to keep people out. More than anything, she had not expected the single window in the chamber and the face sleeping soundly behind it. Feeling fear rise to the surface for the first time in years, she turned to Pierce, her eyes wide. He smiled and shook his head.   
  
      “It’s alright. He is sleeping.”  
  
      “Please don’t patronize me.” She said. “What is this?” She asked, stepping closer to the tube.   
  
      “He is in a state called cryostasis. Frozen to stay the same. He is very old.”   
  
      As Pierce spoke, she understood, felt the gears slide into place in her mind. He was very old, but he did not look like it. “He is like me.” She whispered, reaching toward the observation window.


	3. "Time is a Created Thing"

      A year passed for Natasha over the course of three months. Time was speeding up and for the first time, she did not know what to do with it. Playing the part of an adolescent girl became easier in the moments when she wasn’t looking. She relaxed into the role, the ebbs and flows of elation, jealousy, rage, epiphany, and deepest sorrow threatening to overfill the small frame that made up her whole life. She lived so much more in her mind than ever before.

     She thrived. Growing stronger each day, feeling herself become the person she always knew waited under the surface like a seed waiting to sprout. The place where she failed, however, was in the day to day interactions.

      Pierce’s daughter saw through her just as the child saw that the emperor wore no clothes. The doctors put her on oxygen the week before. The heavy metal cylinder that Annie dragged behind her from room to room brought another metal cylinder to Natasha’s mind. She could not hear the sounds of Annie’s labored breathing without picturing the unconscious, nearly peaceful face of the resting soldier behind the thick pane of frosted glass.

      “Why don’t you have any friends?” Annie asked her one afternoon while Natasha watched the news with more attention than a twelve year old girl might have normally given to footage of President Nixon exiting an airplane. Natasha answered without thinking.  
  
      “Why don’t you?”   
  
      Annie stood and left the room quickly, without another word. _Oh_. Natasha thought. _Because you’re dying. Right._  


-

      Pierce surprised Natasha with tickets to see the Russian Ballet that evening.   
  
      “Do you want to go?” He asked before they left the laboratory after Natasha’s treatment.   
  
      “Of course I do.” She said.   
  
      “They won’t recognize you?” He asked.  
  
      “It has been fifteen years since I trained with them and most children would have grown up by now. I think we are safe.”   
   
      “Natasha, you and I both know people like us are never safe.” Pierce said, although the smile on his face was one of pure delight.  
  
      That night, they arrived at the performance dressed to the nines. To the casual observer, it was a doting father and his precocious daughter taking in a night of culture. The casual observer would have been wrong on so many accounts.   
   
      The music made her soar. She felt the rise and fall of her body, the twists and turns, pirouettes and arabesques in herself as the dancers made them. It was as if no time at all had passed since she was on the stage, moving to the music with such fluid determination.   
Intermission came too soon.   
  
      It was exactly as they planned. She followed the woman into the bathroom, watched her reapply lipstick, fiddle with the tight black fabric of her dress, adjust her perfectly coiffed blonde hair. As she passed Natasha on her way out, they brushed against each other. The woman never felt the needle enter the back of her thigh. A miniscule dot of blood was all that Natasha got for her trouble, swept away by a brush of the woman’s skirt.   
The subcutaneous injection ate its way into the diplomat’s nervous system over the course of the next twenty four hours. Her death was painful and slow.

The Russian Ballet left town, but the assignments came with more frequency after Natasha’s first success. She used her subtlety, gained through years of intelligence reconnaissance, to end the lives of those from whom she gathered information. It was easy, just another step in the dance. She only had to move a little closer and they were hers. She took pride in her work. It was something tangible, the bodies piled up like tally marks of her success.    
  
      “We have another one.” Pierce said after the persistent buzz of the fax machine came to a stop. The monolith of plastic and telephone wires and been hauled into the HYDRA complex the previous month and became the talk of the office. It only took fifteen minutes to transmit a page by telephone. Some were calling it revolutionary technology. Natasha thought it was a messy paper trail.   
  
      She glanced over the instructions, coded, but she got the drift.   
  
      “Horses?” She asked, turning her up her nose.   
  
      “The Derby. International prestige. High stakes gambling.”   
  
      Natasha rolled her eyes. “If we must.”   
  
      “Yes.” Pierce said. “And we are bringing Annie with us.”

-

      The three of them took the private jet. Annie slept while Natasha whispered Crime and Punishment to Pierce.  It was nearly too much for Natasha to contemplate. Assassinating a high-profile target under the nose of countless security guards and witnesses was nothing in her mind, but to do it with Pierce’s daughter sitting mindlessly by watching the pretty horses gallop past felt wrong. She imagined Annie’s face, contorted into that toothy, skeletal grin, overwhelmed by all the excitement.

      She forced herself to think, instead, of other faces: of the stranger sleeping in frozen suspension. She was aging and he was not. Already, she had grown in stature. She was no longer a child but a young woman. Her limbs were lean and graceful; she was taller, willowy but not breakable. Natasha came to live with Pierce and his family looking no more than eleven. She might have passed for fourteen or fifteen now, certainly older than the girl who she called cousin. It was a kind of injustice—to grow in front of Annie just as Annie deteriorated. Natasha’s thoughts came full circle as Annie woke, gasping for air.

      At the Derby, they wore ridiculous hats. Pierce gave Natasha sips of his mint julep. Annie fell in love with the horses, it did not matter which one, it did not matter how likely it was to win, all that mattered was that it was a horse. _Of course_ , Natasha thought, lightheaded and happy, she should have known Annie would be an insufferable horse fanatic. _  
  
_The mission was a balding man in his late fifties. They so often were. It seemed to Natasha that she spent so much of her time killing old, rich, white men that there ought to be far fewer of them running the world. She watched Pierce’s profile, observing the crowd below them. _No_ , she thought. _There are always men like Pierce._   
She followed the target as he wandered through the crowd.   
  
      “Excuse me.” She asked, ready to pounce.   
  
      “I wouldn’t do that.” A voice said directly into her ear. She felt the grip close around her arm, yanking her away from the target. The syringe fell from her hand and was crushed under the feet of a hundred drunken gamblers. Harmless. She had failed.   
  
      She was pulled from behind, around a corner. A hand covered her mouth and tilted her head back. Natasha caught sight of Pierce and Annie. They had not noticed her absence—they were not supposed to.   
  
      “You have a chance, girl.” The voice said into her ear. “Get out.”   
  
      Natasha forced her elbow back against the hard ridge of muscle behind her. She heard a faint “ooph.” She made to run, but felt the arm catch her around the shin, pulling her down into the dust. They scrambled, her assailant gained the upper hand in no time, pinning her. She looked into his eyes, refusing to panic.   
  
      “You made a choice,” He said, watching her closely, “but nobody got hurt today. You can unmake that choice.”   
  
      “Отвяжись!” Natasha grunted.   
  
      “It might not be so easy down the road.” The man said. Natasha took advantage of his mercy, using all the force available to her to head-butt him swinging her temple at his nose. He reared back, holding his face. She ran.   


-

      The walk into HYDRA upon their return felt like walking to the gallows. Natasha’s mind raced with the possibilities. She knew the nerve agent well. Would she be forced to endure its terrible killing power? Would they let her live but refuse to invest further resources into her development? Would her punishment be to remain a gangly fifteen year old—complete with mood swings and a vague uncertainty about the world—forever?   
  
      Pierce had hardly said a word to her from the moment he saw the bruise forming on her face and the dust on her dress. That was punishment enough, she thought. Natasha had lived for decades on silence. She wore it like a second skin. Never had she imagined that she would feel it like a punch to the gut when she walked into the room and found that Pierce had nothing to say to her.   
  
      She turned automatically toward her laboratory—not her laboratory, she reminded herself. The laboratory they gave to her—but she heard Pierce’s voice snap her out of the fog.   
  
      “No. We’re going to visit someone before your treatment.”  
  
      The words “before your treatment” rang in her mind. She was still being treated, then. She thought. That was good. The thought gave her the willpower to continue putting one foot in front of the next.   
  
  
  
They arrived at the elevators that centered so often in her thoughts, her daydreams. She fought to convince herself that it was coincidence—the elevator lead to many floors, not just…  
  
     Pierce pressed the button for the basement and Natasha felt something swoop inside her as they sank into the ground.   
  
     “Wait here.” Pierce said when they arrived at the door. She waited, feeling the flutter in her chest slow back to a steady pulse during the interval. The locks snapped open after she began to give up. Pierce left the room and closed the door behind him.   
  
      “What I am about to show you is the most highly classified information you will ever receive.”  
  
      “I understand.”   
  
      “The asset is unstable. Move slowly. You will not begin training until tomorrow.”   
  
      “Yes sir.” Natasha said. Pierce unlocked the door again.   

 

Two chairs sat facing one another. The one meant for Natasha was large and inviting, upholstered in leather. The other was more utilitarian, with heavy straps to restrain the occupant. It was taken.   
  
      Watching Natasha, awake and alert, was the frozen man. She stepped into the room and into the feeling that she already knew him.   
  
      “Am I supposed to teach you how to kill people?” He asked.  
  
      “No.” She said, taking the seat opposite him. “I already know how to kill people.” She watched his face, it was as she remembered it from her fleeting, one sided introduction while he was in cryostasis. Somehow, the animation made it better—it made him whole. “You’re supposed to teach me how to kill people well.” She said.   
  
      The smile slid onto his face from the corners of his mouth.   
_  
Yes_ , she thought. _I like us both better when we are free to move_.    


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Time is a Created Thing" - Lao Tzu


	4. “The past is never dead. It's not even past.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Winter Soldier begins training the Black Widow.

      “How do you kill?” 

      “It’s a neurotoxin.” She explained. “I inject the target in public, crowded spaces. I’m gone before they even notice the sting of the needle.”  
  
      “You’re like a spider.” The Winter Soldier said. “No, don’t make a face. I like it. It is quiet and efficient.” They sat in silence; neither angry nor awkward, just quiet. It stretched into minutes while each learned the other’s face and what went on behind it. “Obviously, you are good at what you do or you wouldn’t be here.” He said at last.  
  
      “I am.” She said. Natasha’s left eyebrow rose toward her hairline revealing frustration at being sent to a teacher.   
  
      He leapt from the seat, the restraints forgotten and useless, and tackled Natasha. They tumbled across the back of her chair together and fell to the floor. He pinned her to the ground. She felt his weight, more than twice her own, holding her there with two strong hands—one flesh and one metal—grasping her upper arms. There was something gentle in the hold. He did not mean to kill. They heard the click of the locks. He leaned in close to Natasha’s ear and whispered “Not good enough.” The door burst open, “Not yet.”   
  
       “Soldier.” Pierce’s voice was ice and steel. The Winter Soldier did not move.   
  
      “Try again.” The Soldier replied, maintaining his position over Natasha. They heard pierce cock his gun. The seconds ticked by and felt like hours. Natasha remembered what it was for time to have no meaning. Pierce surrendered first.   
  
       “Please.”   
  
      The soldier acquiesced, standing in a fluid movement, rolling up one vertebra at a time. He extended a hand to Natasha and helped her to her feet.  
  
  
      “We need to work on her reflexes.” The Soldier said to Pierce. “I was out of my restraints less than thirty seconds after she sat down.” The realization hit Natasha in an ugly way. She should have seen that. The Soldier went on, “She is too honest, prideful. I believe she is observant, yes, but it wasn’t hard to distract her.”  Natasha felt blood rush to her cheeks, her face on fire. It was a test and she failed.   
  
      “I was told our lessons weren’t beginning until tomorrow.” She said. A last ditch effort to regain control.   
  
      “We started when you stepped into the room.” The Soldier said. She had the uncomfortable sensation that he was still picking her apart, finding her weak points.   
  
      Pierce cleared his throat. “That will be all for today. Soldier, you will need to be debriefed on your time under.”   
  
      The Soldier glanced at Natasha, a trace of discomfort leaking through his stony expression. “How long has it been?”   
  
      “Only two years, this time.” Pierce said. The soldier’s expression did not change, his posture did not shift, but Natasha saw the relief in his eyes.

- 

  
      “You were surprised.” Natasha said to pierce, once the IV was embedded in her arm and the nurse had left the laboratory. “He was not supposed to start my training today.”  
  
      “The Soldier acts on my orders.” Pierce replied, turning the page of his newspaper and avoiding her gaze.  
  
      “Bullshit.” Natasha said. “You practically kicked the door in.”  
  
      Pierce closed the paper and set it down. The motions were calculated and controlled, but for a moment, Natasha saw the rage buried just under his surface. “Natasha, The Winter Soldier is lethal.”  
  
      “So am I.”   
  
      “Don’t fool yourself. You’re good. You are an excellent informant. You are no assassin. That is why we pulled the Soldier out of cryo. Another stunt like the one in Kentucky could get you killed and compromise our international work. We cannot afford a risk like that. It was my mistake. I put you on the field before you were ready.”   
  
      “You’re avoiding the subject.” She said. “Would you have shot him?”  
  
      “The Winter Soldier has been a valuable asset to HYDRA for several decades. His skillset is varied, his work is excellent, and his training is complete. You were obtained less than a year ago and you failed to eliminate your last target.”  
  
      “So would you have shot him?” She asked again.  
  
      Pierce picked up his newspaper. Natasha leaned back in her seat and watched the clear fluid drip into the plastic tubing of her IV. Age, she thought, in liquid form. For all the time that she spent watching the world pass her as a child, stuck in an unmoving body, she missed so much of what it meant to exist. This concoction gave her an understanding of what it meant to be human in a way that she had never before been able to grasp.   
  
      She closed her eyes and thought of the cold stare of the Soldier. She was not a talkative person—years of listening had driven the words from her mouth—but when he asked her questions, she wanted to answer. She wanted to make him understand that she was something, someone, unique. He called her prideful and the word stung like falling onto broken glass. It was not pride, it had been desperation.

  
-  
  
      Dinner was uncomfortable beyond the usual level of awkwardness to which Natasha had become accustomed. Frequently, work with HYDRA or Natasha’s medical sessions, could buy them an excuse from dinner, but some nights she and Pierce were forced to make an appearance, if only for appearance’s sake.   
  
      Mr. and Mrs. Pierce sat next to each other, their wineglasses full and untouched, while forks tapped and scrapped across plates. Annie was hunched over a dinner she wouldn’t eat.  
  
      “I’ve been thinking,” Mrs. Pierce began, her voice quivering.   
  
      “Jenny, really? Now?” Pierce said, heading her off.   
  
      “No, Alexander,” She put her fork down, “I need to say it.” She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “I think that Annie and I should stay at my sister’s place for a while.”   
  
      Natasha watched as Pierce sank back in his chair, resignation rather than deflation played out across his features. The set of his jaw showing the number of times they had discussed this, the number of times he thought he had put the topic to rest. His hand came up to rub at his left temple.   
  
      “You don’t need to do this, Jenny.” He said. Mrs. Pierce shook her head.  
  
      “No, I think I do.”   
  
      “We talked about this. About upsetting Annie.”   
  
      “I’m not upset.” Annie said, from her corner of the table. “Aunt Linda’s is nice and you are busy with work.”   
  
      Natasha heard herself in the conversation at last. She was the reason for this change, of course. She shoveled another bite of mashed potatoes into her mouth to fill the place where there were no words. What do you say to the girl who you have replaced in her own home? What do you say when she is dying? Does it make a difference? She chewed on the food and the thoughts.

  
-  
  
      Natasha packed for Annie. They ignored the sounds coming from the next room over, raised voices and ominous thuds. The sounds of packing and fighting and broken collectables.  
  
      “No.” Annie said as Natasha rummaged through her closet, sorting through dresses to be packed “The green one.”   
  
      “Have you ever heard the story of the Last Czar of Russia and his daughter Anastasia?” Natasha asked her.  
  
      “I don’t think so.” Annie said.   
  
      “Back before Russia was a bad word in America, it was a beautiful place.” She said _. It is still a beautiful place_ , she thought. She continued, “Before the Revolution, Russia had a King, Czar Nicholas and a Czarina, Alexandra and they had beautiful children and beautiful things and lived in a beautiful palace.”   
  
      “It sounds like a fairy tale.” Annie said.   
  
      “It’s not.” Natasha said. “The workers in Russia were poor and cold and starving. They were desperate. They revolted. Part of that meant rounding up the Russian royals and removing them from power—even their families.”  
  
      “That’s sad.”  
  
      “I suppose it is.” Natasha said. “The family was moved from place to place. All four daughters had to pack up their precious gems and gowns as fast as they could in the dead of night if they wanted to keep anything with them. The youngest daughter, Anastasia, was seventeen.”  
  
      “What happened?”  
  
      “The revolutionaries shot the Czar and his family, but there were rumors that Anastasia lived because the bullets only hit the gems lining her dress and not her body. People believe that she lost her memory and forgot that she used to be the Grand Duchess.”   
  
       “Do you think she lived?”  
  
      “Not really. But I used to like to pretend that I was her, when I was little.” Natasha wondered why she said those words aloud. It was a confession she had never made to another person and only to herself in the most still and silent of hours when her agelessness and the burden of time weighed most heavily on her mind.   
  
       “I don’t know if I like that story.” Annie said.   
  
       “I don’t know if anybody likes that story.” Natasha replied. “Some stories aren’t meant to be liked. Some stories are meant to be told.”

 

- 

      Natasha watched Mrs. Pierce and Annie disappear down the quiet suburban street from the living room window. The taillights of the car glared back at her, hostile and accusing. She had experience in taking things that did not belong to her—food, shelter, lives. She never felt bad about it before.   
  
      Pierce sank into the cushioned seat next to Natasha, his whole body heavy with exhaustion. At thirty-five, he looked old. She wondered if there had ever been a time in his life when he had not looked old.   
  
      “Out with it.” He said, his gaze fixed firmly ahead.  
  
      “It’s nothing, sir.” She said.  
  
      “You only call me ‘sir’ when it has to do with work and you don’t want to say it.” He said, still drilling holes into the opposite wall with his stare. “Say it anyway.”   
  
      “Where is the Soldier staying now that he is out of cryostasis?” She asked.  
  
      “He stays in one of the dormitories on the HYDRA complex.” Pierce answered.   
  
      “Wouldn’t it make sense to give him housing here while he is conscious, now that you have space and we don’t have to worry about my cover?” She asked. At last, Pierce faced her, his expression unreadable.  
  
      “Natasha,” He said, watching her closely, “Are you suggesting that I move a dangerous assassin into my home before my wife and child are safely out of shouting distance in order to satisfy your schoolgirl crush?” He asked.  
  
      Natasha did not bother to contain the smile that crossed her lips. “Of course not.” She said. “I am asking you to do it to satisfy HYDRA.”   


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “The past is never dead. It's not even past.” -- William Faulkner, "Requiem for a Nun"


	5. “Time is what keeps everything from happening at once.”

Cool, slick sweat collected on the palms of her hands in the morning while Natasha moved from bedroom to kitchen to bathroom going about her daily routine as if things had not changed. She avoided Pierce and swept her eyes over the gaping holes that his family used to occupy. If she was not tired, it was because she always slept lightly, not because she spent a guiltless night in heavy slumber. They drove to the HYDRA location in silence, each lost in their own mind. 

Instead of The Soldier’s basement cell, Pierce brought her to a gym. The walls and ceiling were heavily fortified, soundproof. She heard no echo of their movements around the space. 

“I’ll be back in three hours.” Pierce said. It was all that he said before leaving. 

Natasha closed her eyes when the door closed, feeling the stillness of the air settle around her. She arched her back into it, pressed her feet into the spongey mat beneath them. Bending forward, she rolled with grace and ease into a series of stretches, leftover from her days with the Ballet. The muscles remembered what the mind forgot. Her eyes still closed, she bent and twisted to the melodies of music that she could not hear. 

A low whistle pulled her back into herself. The Soldier leaned against a wall, watching. “That’s something.” He said, rolling his shoulders and straightening his back, striding across the open space toward her. 

“I don’t imagine a guy like you knocks.”

“I’ve been here since five this morning.” He said. She looked around, a crease deepening between her eyebrows. The Soldier had not been anywhere in sight when she and Pierce arrived. 

“I didn’t see you.” She said. 

“You didn’t look hard enough.” He said. Lightning fast, he swept out a leg and knocked Natasha’s feet from beneath her. She fell on her back. He took another step toward her, farther into her line of vision and pointed, “Up.” He said. “The beams are open and they aren’t hard to get to. People don’t look up unless they have a reason. You can use that.” He offered a hand to pull her up, just as he had the last time they met. 

“Thank you.” She said.

“If you start thanking me for helping you up, you’re going to say it a lot. Wait until I have done something you’re grateful for.” 

-

Natasha felt each second tick by in an agonizing parade of slowness during her treatment. The hormones continued to have the desired effect. Two weeks since the departure of Mrs. Pierce with Annie in tow and Natasha looked and felt at least a year older. Sixteen or seventeen, perhaps, but development was so much harder to track without the marker of calendar years. 

Her lessons with the Soldier began and were put on hold unceremoniously. HYDRA had assignments for her, and assignments always came first. The treasurer of an international children’s charity and a bookseller in Chicago both drew their last breaths at her hands. She was gone and back in the blink of an eye, but it felt too long. It was distracting. She used to feel elated after the thrill of a successful mission, but now she felt all the places where it could have gone wrong. She knew the ways in which she was underprepared and she understood her weak points. 

“A penny for your thoughts?” Pierce asked, sitting down next to her, steaming coffee in his hands. 

“I have a lot of work to do.”

“That is true.” Pierce said, extending his hand to Natasha. He held a small black box which might have contained jewelry.

“What is it?” She asked. 

“Something I thought you would like.” Pierce said. “Open it.” Inside was a key, the same jagged cut as the one that Natasha already used to open Pierce’s front door. She looked at Pierce with the question in her eyes. 

“The Soldier’s relocation was approved. He will stay with us for the remainder of your training.” Pierce said. Natasha fought the impulse to grin. “This is temporary.”

“This will be very good.” Natasha said, keeping her enthusiasm as minimal as she could. To Pierce, she might as well have jumped up and down. 

“This is temporary.” He repeated. 

“My training will improve.” She said. 

“This is temporary.” Pierce said a third time.

“Everything is.” Natasha agreed. 

-

The move was accomplished in one short ride from the HYDRA base to Pierce’s home in his station wagon. The Soldier carried a cardboard box full of clothing and only the most essential weapons into the house. Once inside, Natasha, Pierce, and the Soldier stood in the foyer, frozen in the mystery of hospitality. After a painful minute, the soldier gestured with the box. 

“Should I put this somewhere?” He asked. 

“Natasha, he can have the large guest room on the first floor.” Pierce said, before turning to the basement staircase. 

Natasha led the Soldier down a hallway lined by family photographs and scenic paintings. The Soldier placed his meager box of possessions by the door before making a preliminary sweep of the room and adjoining bathroom. He took note of the sliding glass doors and their view of the back yard with satisfaction. 

“Not bad.” He said, placing the box on the bed and sorting through the items within. 

“When Pierce brought me here, we talked about my cover.” Natasha said. The Soldier watched her out of the corner of his eye while he tucked a pair of heavy black boots into the closet. “What should I call you?” She asked. The Soldier shrugged. 

“Do you need to call me something?” 

“I might.” She said. “You live here now. You are training me. You’re more than just a code name.” 

“What do you want my name to be?” He asked. 

“That’s not the point.” She said. “What do you want it to be?” She remembered working on her cover with Pierce. “It’s better if it is familiar.” She added.

“James.” He said. The word was automatic. 

“Is that your name?” She asked, looking at him with the name in mind. In her mind, his identity rewrote itself into the name. James. 

“It might be.” He said. He sat down on the bed and hung his head, staring at his hands, lost. The gesture was so fragile, so human, that for the first time she saw the shadow of the man beneath the cold façade of the soldier. She saw a ghost. “It could be.” He said in a softer voice. 

-

Natasha left James with his name and his thoughts. Pierce was in his office, in the basement, with the wet bar and the private phone lines. The family knew not to bother him when he was busy in his office, but Natasha was not family. 

“He is settling in.” She reported. 

“That’s fine.” Pierce said, leaning back in his chair, massaging his temples. “How are you?” He asked. Natasha was taken aback by the question. Her back straightened, eyebrows knit together in surprise. 

“Me, sir? I’m alright.” 

“It has been a lot lately, hasn’t it?” 

“Nothing I can’t handle.” She said. 

“Of course, Natasha.” Pierce indulged them both in one of his rare smiles. “You have everything under control.” He said. He glanced at the clock on his desk, a big, heavy thing that showed the date and the phases of the moon. “It’s time to get to bed. You and the Soldier are going in early tomorrow for weapons training.” 

“Alright.” She said. She thought better of the words but they were already leaving her mouth as she said “The Soldier is going by James as his cover while he is in the world.”  
Pierce said nothing, but the sharp turn of his eyes toward her and the speed with which his expression closed itself off spoke volumes. The name had a meaning. 

“Goodnight, Natasha.” Pierce said.

“Goodnight, sir,” She said. “And thank you.” 

“What for?” He asked.

“For asking me how I am.” She said. “I don’t think anyone has done that before.”

-

A routine established itself over the following days. The three occupants of the house rose early and prepared for their days together. They shared the space and ate breakfast in the kitchen. What used to be an exercise in stealth and silence in an effort not to wake Annie became a time of loud conversations half shouted through the hallways. Uninhibited laughter echoed over the sounds of the gurgling percolator. Natasha sank into the comfort of the comradery and ignored the shallow feeling of betrayal that radiated through her each time she felt too sturdy in the life that Annie vacated. She listened to James recount advice about undercover work over her cereal.

“No no no,” James said, shaking his head and pulling on white tee-shirt as he made his way into the kitchen “leaving a paper trail is the worst way to get caught. That’s what the movies get all wrong. If you’re going undercover you have to burn your checkbook.” 

“Careful, there.” Natasha said, pouring milk into her coffee. “You’re sounding awfully Russian. The whole Commie thing is my gig.” 

The soldier shrugged and took the carton of milk from her, drinking from the spout. Pierce pulled the carton from him. 

“Were you raised in a barn? Glass.” 

James retrieved a glass from the cabinet. While Pierce’s back was turned, he took another long swig of milk directly from the carton. Natasha giggled.

“Don’t think I’m unaware of what you’re doing.” Pierce said. “James, you and Natasha are going in separately today. I have a meeting with the board at ten.” 

“HYDRA has a board?” Natasha asked through a mouthful of cereal. 

“Everything has a board.” Pierce said, rolling his eyes. He tossed his car keys James. 

“I could drive.” Natasha said. 

“No.” Pierce said, his voice flat.

“But—“ She began, voice pitching dangerously close to a whine.

“No.” He repeated.

“For god’s sake, I am older than you, Pierce.”

“It is not going to happen.” 

“So you trust freezer burn over here, but not me?” She asked, nodding toward James and muttering. 

“The Soldier accompanied me into hostile territory in deep shadow conditions and got me back out alive again on multiple missions. If I trust anybody in this room with my car, it is him.” Pierce said. He looked up at James. “Not a scratch, by the way.” 

 

-  
They were around the corner and out of sight from the Pierce estate when an expression of defiant glee slipped over James’s face. He pulled over to the shoulder of the road. 

“What he won’t know won’t hurt him.” James said, throwing the car into park and his door open to trade seats with Natasha. The adrenaline of disobedience rocketed through her and she found it curious that it was nothing at all to snub out the lives of innocents, but taking her handler’s car for a joy ride filled her with a perverse thrill. 

“You know what,” James said, “I’m making an executive decision. Keep driving. We’re playing hooky today.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Time is what keeps everything from happening at once.” -- Ray Cummings, The Girl in the Golden Atom
> 
> Two chapters in one weekend! You can thank my super nasty cold. At least it is good for something, right? Happy reading! :)


	6. “Here we are, trapped in the amber of this moment. There is no why”

      “People are staring at us.” Natasha said as they wandered up the city street, past shops and restaurants.  
  
      The taste of strawberry ice cream lingered in her mouth. James felt the cool a breeze against and the sunlight against his skin. They savored each detail of the day, but did not forget for a moment that it was stolen.  
  
      “It’s benign. Don’t worry.” James said. Their reflection watched them pass. He was a head taller than her, the red of her hair glowed against his black clothes. Both of their features were bold and striking. “We aren’t exactly the type to blend into the scenery.”   
  
      “I’m not worried. I’m just not used to it.” Natasha said. A truck full of rowdy men passed them, leaning heavily on the horn and hollering out of the windows at her. “I’m not used to that.” She said.   
  
      “That is going to happen a lot. Get used to idiots like that.” He held up the robotic hand between them, flexing and bending the fingers “There is strategy in allowing morons think they have power over you. Let them think you are weak and you can use them or break them.”   
  
      She nodded. “Already learned that lesson, actually.”   
  
      “Yeah, you’re pretty sharp.” He said.  
  
      “I also learned that the more power you let somebody think they have, the more power they end up taking.”  
  
      Their steps became louder as the conversation died off. In the distance, the neon tubing of a movie theater glowed. “Weren’t we supposed to be taking a break?” James asked. 

 

      The theater was all but empty on the weekday afternoon. He held the door for her and she felt the metal beneath the long sleeve of his jacket brush against her hand as they walked toward the lone employee behind the counter. She told herself the goose bumps that ran up her arm were from the air conditioning.   
  
      She assessed the reedy young man selling tickets and popcorn: not a threat. “What are we seeing today, folks?” He asked with a tone of forced cheer.   
  
      “What’s good?” James asked.  
  
      “A Clockwork Orange is great.”   
  
      “Okay, two for that.” The tickets were bought and sold. The two picked from the rows of abandoned seats in the dark, loaded down with armfuls of popcorn and movie fare.   
  
      They waited for the film to start.   
  
      “How are you paying for all of this?” Natasha asked, leaning across the arm rest.  
  
      “Pierce thinks I don’t know about his caches of money hidden around the house. Funny, really. He forgets that I know him as well as he knows me.” James said.   
  
      “Well then, thank Pierce for me.” Natasha said, unwrapping a box of Raisinets and popping a handful into her mouth. James stretched his arm across the back of Natasha’s seat.   
  
      “Not a chance.” He said. The lights dimmed.   
  
      Natasha felt James sink into himself as the movie progressed. She found the mixed up tangle of English and Russian amusing. The blatant violence was refreshing, rather than shying away from it for the sake of Hollywood decency. However, as the story progressed, things went downhill quickly. The protagonist was strapped into a chair with his eyes held open. They tortured him. She felt James go cold next to her, as if all the blood was sucked from the surface of his body. He was shaking.   
  
      “Okay.” She said, breaking the hypnotic connection of the screen. He flinched at the sudden interruption, but upon turning to see her face, exhaled for the first time in a long time. “I think we had better go.” Natasha said. James shook his head.   
  
      “It’s alright.” He said. “I want to see how it ends.”

 

-  
  
      When it was over, they walked out of the theater in a daze. The air around them felt oppressive. Worse, the knowledge that the day had also come to an end sank into their bones. It was time to go home.   
  
      James drove in silence. Natasha surrendered the keys to him without an argument. The fight had disappeared from her; she felt the air blown out of her like a punctured lung. Exhausted.  
  
      Pierce stood in the driveway, arms crossed over his chest. He opened Natasha’s door for her when James cut the engine.  
  
      “The prodigal daughter returns.” He said, not bothering to soften his tone. Natasha did not respond, but bowed her head and walked inside, knowing that James was only a step behind her allowed her to keep walking. She felt disconnected from her feet.   
  
      The front door slammed behind them like the last nail in a coffin.   
  
      “The meeting went well.” Pierce said, shrugging off his jacket with more force than was strictly necessary. “I had a hell of a time convincing the board that it was a reasonable idea to allow a cryo subject to live in a residence, let alone a residence with a trainee. It was a personal favor, you know.” He went on, loosening his tie with vicious fervor. “So I gave them the update: Adjusting well. Behavior predictable, consistent. Everything was peachy.” Pierce fixed the Soldier with a stare that could melt glass. “Then I suggested a live demonstration. Weapons training. They could see exactly how the process was being executed for themselves.” His glare turned to Natasha, “Guess who wasn’t there.”   
Natasha sank into the chair behind her, willing herself to disappear into it.   
  
      “I’m sorry.” She said, her head in her hands.  
  
      “Sorry?” Pierce repeated.   
  
      James stepped forward. “It was a training exercise.”   
  
      The fire emanating from Pierce evaporated, replaced by an icy coolness that permeated the room. “You have my undivided attention.” He said. “Do tell me about this unauthorized training exercise.”   
  
      “Undercover work in urban spaces. Most of her work will be in that setting, correct? Natasha, what did you learn today?” James said, his voice deeper, slipping into the commanding tone that he used in the ring when they practiced combat     
  
      Natasha put her hands in her lap, straightened her back, looked Pierce in the eye, “You have to take advantage of the opportunities given to you.”   
  
      Pierce looked her over with an appraising gaze. “And my absence was an opportunity?” He asked.   
  
      “In a manner of speaking, yes,” Natasha said, “although if you are implying that there is anything unprofessional going on, you’re way off base.”   
  
      Pierce shook his head. “That’s enough, Natasha. Go to your room.”   
  
      “Did you just tell me—“ She began, pitch and volume rising.   
  
      “Yes, I did.” Pierce cut her off. “Go. To. Your. Room.” Each syllable contained more poison than the last. Natasha turned for the stairs. “Soldier, I need a word.” Pierce said.   
  
      Natasha waited until their footsteps had faded down the stairs into Pierce’s study and then crept down them herself, as silently as a spider.   
  
  
  
      She waited behind the door, ear next to the hinge, listening. She heard the rattle of ice. Liquid poured into two glasses. The shifting of two chairs as bodies sank into them.   
  
      “The scientists had bad news. All of their tests have come back negative.” She heard Pierce’s voice say through the door. Then silence, a cigar lit and a long drink. “The second half of your mission is being scrapped. We now only require you to train Natasha.”   
  
      “I understand.” James’s voice resonated through the door, deep and sonorous.   
  
      “I don’t. It should have worked.” Pierce said. “The hormonal changes were supposed to affect her entirely—obviously, they have. You only have to look at her to see that the treatment is working.—Reproduction should not be so difficult to achieve.”  
  
      “With all due respect, sir, she nearly forty-four years old. Even if she were normal, having a single child would be dangerous.”   
  
      “Physiologically, she is eighteen. She should have years of breeding ahead of her.”   
  
      Natasha felt her throat go dry. She had been a fool to think that she could be valued for her mind and her ruthlessness alone. Of course HYDRA would insist on owning every part of her—what other use would they have in fulfilling her greatest wish and aging her at such expense and effort? She shook her head and clenched her fists so tightly that her fingernails bit into the flesh of her palms.   
  
      Pierce went on. “I can excuse today’s indiscretion: failure to clear plans with me before taking her into the field, since it was part of a larger mission, but that ends now.”   
  
      “Sorry?” She could hear the frown in James’s tone.   
  
      “It was good of you to win Natasha’s trust by helping her to rebel like that. Clearly you know her well, but that ends now. Your training will remain strictly on compound premises unless otherwise authorized. Now that nothing else can be achieved by an alliance between the two of you, I want all of your attention to be on her fighting skills.” She heard the command in Pierce’s voice and it sent the rage bubbling inside Natasha. She felt it spill over, helpless to stop it. She knew where to apply pressure to kick down a door, it was second nature. She was standing in an open doorway, seething with rage, fury blurring her vision.   
  
      “Good evening, sir. I think you forgot to invite me to your meeting.”   
  
      She felt James’s arms wrap around her before her instincts told her to respond. He held her from behind, his grip delicate enough not to cause serious damage, but   
unbreakable all the same.   
  
      “No, Soldier. It’s fine.” Pierce said. Natasha’s feet touched the floor. James kept a lose hold on her, and through her anger she imagined that it was she who held him back, as if her presence was the grounding force in the room.   
  
      Pierce continued, “It is better that you know, Natasha. We had plans for you. Your genetic anomalies are a mystery. Our team of scientists has tried every method imaginable of unlocking the secret of your slow aging process, but with no success. We have had a similar experience with the Soldier. His genetic code is enhanced, artificially, but there seems to be no way to adequately reproduce it. There have been other more successful cases, but they are lost to us.   
Rather than losing another genetic miracle, we hoped to combine the two. If you bred, we could create a new generation of enhanced humans, with the potential to have the best of both parents.”   
  
      “And what if I don’t want to have children?” Natasha asked.   
  
      “It is a moot point. You can’t.” Pierce replied.   
  
      Natasha felt the words like a slap to the face. She had never considered having children. For more than four decades she had been stuck in a state of perpetual childhood, herself. She did not know which thought was more abhorrent to her, being forced to become the broodmare for a generation of super soldiers against her will, or watching the possibility of motherhood wrenched from her future before she had ever imagined it as an option.   
  
      She turned in James’s arms. His embrace edged from restrictive to tender. “You knew about this plan?” She asked, looking up into his face for signs of remorse, apology, humanity.   
  
      “It is why they woke me up.” He said, simply and without feeling.   
  
      She shrugged out of his grip—an impossible feat for anyone who had not studied with him for months—and walked through the broken door keeping her head high. She would not let them see her break. She would not look back.

  
-  
  
      It was eleven thirty when she heard the floorboards creek in the hallway. Natasha sat, folded into herself, in the middle of a bed that was not hers. Her face was streaked by tears that she told herself were irrational, useless, embarrassing. The tears came anyway. She was trapped in a house, a life, a body, all built for purposes for which no one had bothered to consult her.   
  
      The footsteps were nearly silent. If her ears did not hear every disturbance, they might have been her imagination. She rolled her eyes while rolling off the bed. Natasha placed herself behind the door as a barricade and opened it just wide enough to see his eye.   
  
      “Yes?” She asked.   
  
      “We kill people.” James said in a hoarse whisper.   
  
      She stood aside and watched him enter the room with the same silent footsteps. He took a seat in the chair at the desk, looking both uncomfortable and out of place.   
  
      “We kill people.” She agreed. “That is our job. I depend on you to make that happen. I trust you.”   
  
      “That was your first mistake.” He said. “Trust is a luxury not afforded to prisoners. At least, not if we want to stay alive for long.”   
  
      “You’ve done pretty well for yourself.” She said, reveling in the cruelty of her words.  
  
      “Natasha,” James began, looking lost, “I was frozen. They thawed me out and pointed me at you. I’m just a weapon.”   
  
      “You’re more than that.”   
  
      “What am I?” James asked, raising his arm, watching the plates of metal twist and shift together as he flexed his wrist and fingers.   
  
      Natasha acted without on instinct, pushing the arm out of her way. Her fingers locked around his jaw, pulling his face down to meet hers. Their eyes were open, his in surprise and hers to watch his. The kiss was short and brutal and blunt—the wordless communication no different from the way that Natasha shared all of her thoughts. She let him go a moment later, determination set where the kiss had been.   
  
      “Does that answer your question?” She asked.   
  
      “Explain it to me again.” He said.   
  
      Natasha dragged James across the room by the collar and opened the door. “Not until I know what we’re up against.” She said, opening it and smoothing the wrinkles in his shirt. “Goodnight, James.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Here we are, trapped in the amber of this moment. There is no why” -- Kurt Vonnegut, Slaughterhouse-Five


	7. “Being with you and not being with you is the only way I have to measure time.”

      Natasha lived for herself. Her creation was shrouded in mystery, the purpose lost to time and destruction. States and regimes rose and fell as she looked on. She spied and killed, but never for an ideal, never for the concept of a leader or a community. She did what she had to do in order to continue. That was all it had ever been. The Soldier changed that. Her eyes locked onto his face, frozen in ageless suspension, and she was lost in the familiarity. What she felt was greater than herself.   
  
      When she woke the next morning, the events of the previous night took their time creeping back into her waking mind, but the feeling of his lips on hers whispered to her like a secret. She arranged her face into a mask of calm passivity and moved through the house on silent feet. Rounding the corner into the kitchen, Natasha felt the disappointment sink in her like a stone when she saw that it was already occupied, but not by James.  
  
      Pierce appeared to take up twice as much space as he normally did, leaning against the refrigerator with a coffee cup in hand. Natasha felt the bile rise in her throat at the sight of him, wanting nothing more than to attack and to run and to scream all at the same time. Instead she stood rooted to the spot.   
  
      “Good morning.” Pierce said, with a forced edge of pleasantness to his words. Natasha said nothing, but walked to the refrigerator and raised her eyebrows. Pierce moved. Victory, Natasha thought.   
  
      James walked into the kitchen, hair wet from the shower. Natasha wondered why it mattered to her. She watched him out of the corner of her eye as she poured a glass of orange juice and shut the refrigerator door hard enough that the whole machine shook from the impact. James did not glance her way. She chewed her toast viciously and stabbed at an egg with uncalculated ferocity. James exited the room without a backward glance. It did not improve her mood. Pierce was busy checking his watch. He was not evaluating her actions and the way that Natasha’s eyes drifted to the doorway through which James had left.

      She rode in the back of the car on the way into the office, arms folded tightly to her chest, scowling at her knees as they drove the short way through a sleepy suburb. Knowing that Pierce was watching for her reactions in his rear-view mirror made the anger seep from her pores.   
  
      “Your training is to continue today as scheduled.” He said. It was unnecessary, they were already on the way.   
  
      “Fine.” She said, layering every bit of toxicity that she could muster into the single syllable.   
  
      “You will respect the Soldier’s authority as your trainer.” Pierce said. Natasha’s stomach churned at the condescension in his tone.   
  
      “Yes, sir.” She said. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from grinning. She could not smile. Instead, she narrowed her eyes at the back of Pierce’s head and imagined every other lie that was hiding inside. She knew that her imagination could not possibly account for the reality.

 

-  
  
      Pierce left them at the elevator. The doors slid shut, blocking him from view. As they closed, the breath that Natasha had not known she was holding in her lungs escaped.   
  
      “So that’s your plan?” She asked. “You’re going to ignore me every time we’re in the same room with Pierce?”  
  
      “You seemed angry.” James said, watching her the way he did before a fight, assessing the threat and the potential for damage.   
  
      “Of course I am angry!” She said. “At Pierce.” Natasha concluded gently, after the echo of her anger faded into silence. James’s shoulders relaxed. They made their way into the training studio. “You shouldn’t ignore me when I’m angry, though.” She finished the thought she started in the elevator when they heard the lock click into place.  
  
       James fitted a chair under the doorknob for extra security. Standard practice, even at a secure HYDRA location. There were eyes everywhere. Their own eyes remained focused on the particles of air in front of them as they stretched.  
  
       “I try not to let emotions enter into it. Anger clouds judgment. It is a liability that we should avoid.” James said, finally, as he rose from the mat, feet planted firmly shoulder-width apart. Natasha stood next to him and waited in the calm before the storm until she saw the muscles tense out of the corner of her eye. She reacted as if in a dance, body twisting and gliding through the air and around him, using the force of his own movement to drag him down. She pinned him to the mat, arms and legs at odd angles.   
  
      “All emotions?” She asked. “You keep everything out?” She searched his face, looking for the answers behind his words.   
  
      “Yes.” He said. “Let me up.”   
  
      She rolled aside and rose to her feet in one fluid action as he gained ground. He grappled her again, twisting one arm behind her back. She spun out of the hold before he could take her down and leapt for the beams above their heads, pulling herself up. For a moment, she felt his fingers brush against her foot before he joined her in the rafters.   
  
     “What about love?” She asked, bounding away from him on careful feet. He pursued her, taking long strides across the metal beams.   
  
      “Absolutely. If you are going to avoid anything, avoid love.” He answered.   
  
      She dropped back to the floor and waited. He followed, like she knew he would. She used the force of his roll to pin him to the mat on his back.   
  
      “Tell me you don’t love this.” She said, smiling down at him. He remained silent, the corner of his mouth betraying the smile lurking behind it.   
  
      James flipped them and slowly lowered his lips to hers. Natasha felt a different kind of electricity jolt through her at the contact, alive with an energy that came from a desire to draw nearer rather than to repel. She enjoyed it more than the fight and more than the flight. She felt their arms and legs tangle with a careless kind of ease as their lips moved together.   
  
      “Soldier, I believe you are defying a direct command.” She said when they came up for air at last. “It’s training only, remember? Pierce’s orders.”  
  
      “Who says this isn’t training?” James asked. “I’ve given you ample opportunity to escape. You aren’t taking advantage. If anything, you are the guilty party here.” He said, leaning in to kiss her again. Natasha wriggled free.   
  
      “Alright,” She said, “If you can catch me, you can kiss me.”

 

- 

      Natasha woke in the early hours of the morning to the sound of feet making their careful way down her hallway. She could feel her heartbeat in her ears, her throat, her fingertips, the same surge of electricity that charged through her in the training studio came alive again. She remained  still and forced regular breaths in and out of her lungs. Her door opened. She remained still, feigning sleep. A weight settled at the foot of her bed.   
  
      “Natasha.”  It was the wrong voice. She felt the excitement drain from her, replaced by a cold, dead weight. She turned and sat up, no trace of sleep left in her expression.   
  
      “Yes, Pierce? Mission?”   
  
      “New York. Twenty Four Hours.” He said. She knew that more information would come in its own time. Natasha rose from the bed and nodded. Pierce left her with both a sense of purpose and disappointment creeping up her spine.   
  
      Ten minutes later, she met Pierce at the stairs, packed and ready to depart. They did not speak until they were safely boarded on the jet.   
  
      “Why are we not bringing James?” Natasha asked, leafing through the dossier on her target. “This could go a lot smoother with him along.” She said, skimming over the military history, combat experience, and spoken languages contained in the manila envelope.   
  
      “He does not take missions in New York.” Pierce said. He offered no explanation. Natasha studied his face, looking for details and finding nothing. “I thought you would be glad to have a break.” He said, finally.   
  
      “It is fine.” She said, returning to the information in her hands.   
  
      “Natasha, you were not supposed to find out about the fertility studies that way. You would have been consulted about the operation before the time came…” he faltered, “with James, I mean. We want you to be comfortable. I see now that it was a mistake.”   
  
      “Is this an apology?” Natasha asked.   
  
      “You are very important to HYDRA.” Pierce said, fiddling with his armrest and avoiding her gaze. “It was wrong of us to keep you in the dark about something so personal.” He concluded. Natasha nodded and looked out the window at the sunrise.   
  
      “It doesn’t matter now.” She said.  
  
      “No. It doesn’t matter anymore.” Pierce agreed. “There will no longer be any assignments with a goal of reproduction. It is off the table.”   
  
      “Yes. But that is my choice.” Natasha said.   
  
      They completed their journey cradled in the comfort of their silence and their lies.   
  
-  
  
      Disarmed, Natasha fought on the rooftop in the rain, feeling the cool spray of water on her face. She twisted and turned with her target the way she had with James during their last day of training together. It was easier with a target. He did not know her body or her mind. She read his movements before he made them, in the tense of his muscles and the twitch of his eyes to left or right. She took him down in a matter of moments, the water seeping through her clothes while she held him down as he struggled for his last breaths.   
      The sense of calm that she felt as she left the body was the same feeling that grew in her chest when James entered a room. Natasha walked through the streets of Brooklyn alone and saw his face.

 

-  
  
      On the night that Natasha was away, James slept in her bed. He told himself that it was purely tactical, entering her bedroom in the empty house, free of the danger of Pierce’s watchful eyes and Natasha’s constant knowing smile. He wanted to know that the place where she slept was a sound one. If she was ever vulnerable—and he doubted that she ever was—she needed to be in a place where she was safe.   
  
      The second floor was as well defended as the structure allowed. The tree in the back yard provided some cover, he thought, but he knew he could scale it and find his way in through her window if need be. He wondered if she thought all this through already. He wondered if she had used the tree in the back yard for her own purposes. He wished he knew what those purposes might be, and longed to know her thoughts.   
  
      Natasha’s pillow smelled like her. He imagined that he could smell her dreams, all sugar and blood. James caressed the space next to his face as he breathed in, feeling the softness there. It was a softness that Natasha did not have. She was all spikes and edges, at least until they were alone.   
James rolled onto his back, thinking about the last time they had been alone.   
  
  
_She swooped down from her hiding place in a dark corner in a move that might have broken a neck if made with slightly more commitment. Natasha curled her body around his, but not to fight. With one hand on either side of his face, she looked into his eyes. He held onto her, refusing to let her go, clutching her to him._  
 _“How many times have you done this?” She asked._  
 _“Are you asking if there has ever been anyone like you?” He asked. “You already know the answer to that.” He said, leaning in to kiss her. Their lips parted and he rested his forehead against hers. “Are you asking if I remember who I loved before?” He asked. “You already know the answer to that, too.” He said. “There are no ghosts, here, Natasha.” He felt her nod against him, eyes closed. Her lips found his._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so the official makeout chapter has ended.   
> We're climbing this mountain, folks. 
> 
> “Being with you and not being with you is the only way I have to measure time.” -- Jorge Luis Borges


	8. “It is the time you have wasted for your rose that makes your rose so important.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sex!

      Natasha and Pierce dropped their bags in the foyer, feeling exhaustion in their limbs as if their mission had taken weeks rather than days. They heard the cab rumble away into the darkness of the morning. Awake before the sun, awake all night, the state that Natasha found herself in upon this homecoming was hardly wakeful anymore. She drifted, zombielike toward the stairs and her bedroom.   
  
      The phone rang. She diverted her steps and answered, every nerve in her body screaming in protest.   
  
      “Hello?” She asked.   
  
      “Natasha?” She heard a wrecked voice ask from the other line. “Is my husband there?”   
  
      “Just one second, Mrs. Pierce. I’ll let him know you’re calling.” Natasha placed the receiver down on the table and found Pierce still standing by the door in a daze. “Your wife is on the line.” She said. “I’m going to bed.” She added. Pierce nodded and made his way to the phone. Natasha took it for the dismissal that it was and fled for the safety and mercy of her bed. 

 

-  
  
      Natasha saw the outline of him between her sheets. Perfectly at rest, James looked younger. His face was pristine, almost as if all the years of violence in his daily life were erased by the spell of sleep. She drew nearer, holding her breath. One hand reached out to tuck a stray strand of hair back from his face, to smooth away a crease in his forehead, for any reason at all. She knew that she wanted to touch him and that she wanted nothing else. His eyes opened slowly, blinked away the sleep, and reached for her hand. Bringing it to his lips, he placed a kiss against her palm.   
  
      “You’re back.” He whispered.   
  
      “Maybe it’s a dream.” She said, pushing her way into bed.   
  
      “Let’s find out.” He replied, stroking the side of her face, her neck, her hair. His lips followed his hand, kissing all of the places he touched. She turned to face him, giving him a new canvas to paint with kisses. She returned the touches. Her own kisses followed.   
  
      From the distant downstairs, they heard the front door slam. Moments later, the engine of Pierce’s car rumbled to life. A sigh escaped Natasha’s lips, the tension she held in her shoulders dissipating beneath James’s touch with the disappearance of Pierce. Natasha forgot all thought of sleep. She forgot her missions and her training and her orders. All she knew were the places where James’s hands skimmed lightly over her skin, testing her boundaries and drawing her nearer. She pulled him closer, tucking a leg around his to coil together like rope in the tangle of sheets, wound too tightly. It was not enough.   
  
      She felt him, all long lines of muscle, ridges and curves where shoulder gave way to chest gave way to torso. She knew this body, had fought this body, so many times. She knew how he would move. He rolled his hips in a seamless, relentless way, the sensation washing over her like waves. He was hard against her through layers of clothing waiting to be shed, an unspoken promise she intended to keep.    
  
      “Is this what you want?” James whispered the question in her ear.   
  
      “This is all that I want.” Natasha said. She turned to see his eyes and the smile radiating from him without restraint. “Do you want this, James?” She asked, finding both of his hands with her own. He brought their hands to his chest. She felt his heartbeat, wild and rapid.   
  
      “This is what I choose.” He said.   
  
      Clothing and bedding were discarded and scattered. Natasha felt James unhook her bra with swift, deft fingers, cold against her back. A shiver ran along her spine. She rolled closer into him, allowing him to bear her weight and placing kisses along his collar bone, shoulder, the deep scarring and ridges where flesh gave way to metal.   
  
      “You don’t have to—“ James began. "If you don't like..." Natasha shushed him and silenced him with another kiss, bringing his left hand to her chest, warming it between them. She guided her other hand onto her too, leading it in a path from neck down the peaks of her breasts, over the flat of her belly and farther down. He found the patch of hair between her legs and the warmth and wetness waiting there.   
  
      “Please.” She said, head dropping to his shoulder. He surrendered at last, touching her with practiced movements. “Oh, that’s…” She began. She did not know what it was. Good, certainly, better than good. “Do that.” She said, words failing her.   
  
      While he worked, he flipped them, watching Natasha on her back, savoring the image. She was never there for long. Slowly, deliberately, he descended from the head of the bed, kissing down her neck to her torso, down to her hips. His mouth replaced his hand. Natasha’s legs curled around him, her hands tightened in the sheets at her sides.   
She felt the heat of his breath, his hands rubbing circles on her thighs, tongue moving with precision and determination. Natasha threw her head back, letting out a guttural moan and felt him pause momentarily to smile against her.   
  
      “Oh God, don’t stop.” She said. He redoubled his efforts, pushing her off the edge. He felt his success as her legs tightened and trembled around him. Wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, he withdrew from the space between her legs, and found himself in her arms again. He watched her face, flushed and beaded with sweat, lips slightly parted. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, recovering from the exertion.  
  
      “Open the drawer in the bedside table.” Natasha said, once she caught her breath and found her voice. Inside, James found a small silk bag. “Open it.” She said. He did, and found a handful of condoms in foil packaging.    
  
      “How long have you had these?” James asked, raising an eyebrow.   
  
      “Since I found out about HYDRA’s plan. I think there is something satisfying about screwing just to feel good, especially now that I know all about their plan to breed us. On the off chance that I can, let’s not give them the satisfaction.”   
  
      “I like the way you rebel.” James said, pushing her hair aside to kiss her neck. He paused to tear open the package and roll the thin sleeve down his length, smirking at her through the locks of hair that fell into his eyes. He braced his weight with his left hand while he steadied himself with his right, taking full advantage of the sensation in the human hand to feel himself enter her. His jaw dropped slightly and his head fall back as her heat and softness enveloped him. Only when he could go no farther did his eyes find hers again.   
  
      “Are you alright?” He asked after a moment of stillness.   
  
      “Move, damn it.” She said, rocking into him to express the point. Natasha pulled him into a fierce kiss, their teeth clashing as they built a rhythm, both of them fighting not to smile.   
  
      They built up a steady pace. Breathing became faster and more labored, hands roamed, eyes lingered. James’s lips traced a path from Natasha’s lips to her neck and down to her breasts. His full lips closed around a nipple, sucking and teasing, drawing an ecstatic cry from her. She felt the familiar coolness of the metal hand on her other breast, gentle but merciless all the same.   
  
      He descended into uncontrolled chaos, spurred on by Natasha’s encouragement. Every nuance, each twitch of her hips, every breath, was an added layer of rapture. He lost himself in it and in her. The sensation grew, pooling low in his abdomen, curling his toes. He felt himself let go and pressed his lips to hers again in a kiss like fighting. The release came like death: tortuous and blinding and sweet.

 

 

      Natasha watched him recover as he lay beside her, feeling the same sublime accomplishment that overcame her when she defeated him in combat. This was better, she thought, surveying the patches of red in his cheeks, the glazed expression in his eyes, the pure calm that settled over his features while his heart rate descended. In this moment, she saw the mask melt and witnessed the man beneath it. He was vulnerable in the ways that all men were, easily swayed by beauty, desire, and their own ego, but there was more: he was afraid.   
  
“What will happen when they don’t need you anymore?” She asked.   
  
“You don’t waste time on pillow talk.”   
  
“Of course I don’t.” She said. “They’ll put you back into cryo, won’t they?” She watched him nod and swallow, stroking his chest with the back of her hand, fighting to keep the coldness of The Soldier at bay for as long as she could. She shook her head. “That is not what you are worried about.” She watched carefully for his reaction.  
  
“Who says I’m worried?” He asked.   
  
“You’re worried that they are going to put me on ice, too.” She said. The words sank into him like lead. He closed his eyes and exhaled hard.   
  
“I am not going to let that happen.” He said.  
  
“Neither am I.” She said. It was a comfort, she thought, if only for the night.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “It is the time you have wasted for your rose that makes your rose so important.” -- ― Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince
> 
> We did it, folks!   
> THEY did it!   
> Well done.


	9. "As If You Could Kill Time Without Injuring Eternity"

      “Do we run?” Natasha asked James, one arm draped across his chest, rising and falling in a slow rhythm. James leaned back against the headboard, hair fanned out against the pillow.   
  
      “I think I remember trying to run before.” He said. “Something tells me it didn’t end well.” He shook his head. “HYDRA will never accept this.”   
  
      “They don’t have to.” Natasha replied. “We need to find somebody to take us in. There are other forces at work, other groups. HYDRA has enemies who could use our skills. We have valuable information.”   
  
      “This is dangerous, Natasha.” James said.  
  
      “Everything we do is dangerous, James.”   
  


-  
  
      They heard Pierce’s arrival in the slam of a car door.  
  
      “Shit.” Natasha said. James slid out of bed and into his clothes. He leaned across the bed and placed a kiss on the back of Natasha’s neck before crossing the room and opening the window in a silent heartbeat. In the time it took to turn her head, he had vanished. With equally silent movements, she rearranged the room and herself, destroying the evidence that he had ever been there and returning to bed.   
  
      The knock on the door was not expected, but not disastrous. Natasha responded with a groggy call and rose from the bed again, not entirely faking her exhaustion. Pierce stood at the door looking like a different person altogether. His eyes were bloodshot, rimmed with red, deep grey circles rested beneath them. He slumped against the frame, as though holding himself required too much of him.   
  
      “What happened?” She asked. Fear boiled in her. She had never seen Peirce like this.   
  
      “24 hours.” He said.   
  
      “Mission?” Natasha asked.  
  
      “No.” Pierce replied, shaking his head slowly, the word sounded thick coming out of his mouth. “Annie. She has 24 hours left.”  
  
      Annie. In the months since she drove away, Natasha had given Annie less and less thought. Sick, young Annie. Annie who was still twelve and would be twelve forever. Natasha knew death like a friend. She knew what it meant for a heart and a brain and a pair of lungs to stop. She did not know what to do with this broken man standing before   
her, or with the feeling spinning in her own mind that she had failed somehow.   
  
      “Can I see her?” She asked. She did not want to.   
  
      “No.” Pierce said. “Family only. Besides, the last time she saw you, you looked her age. It would only confuse her.” Natasha nodded. She did not know if Pierce’s answer made her feel better or worse.   
  
      “I’ll be back tomorrow.” Pierce said. “After.”   
  
      Natasha had nothing to say. There were no words for this.

 

      After Pierce left, loaded down with a bag of clothes and the family photo album, Natasha crept downstairs to the room where James slept. He sat by the window, watching the door.   
  
      “Pierce’s daughter is dying. If we leave now, we have a twenty-four hour head start.” Natasha said. They stood in the silent house, feeling the finality of her words. They could not come back. “Let’s go.”  
  
Without another word, they left the house, and Pierce, and HYDRA.

 

-  
  
      They walked from the suburb without taking anything with them. To pack would raise suspicion. They could get what they needed. Once they had cleared the neighborhood without raising alarm, they began to breathe easier.   
  
      Natasha knew the mistake of getting too comfortable when a black car rounded the corner. The window rolled down slowly. Inside, she saw a face she recognized. She smelled the sweat and dust and horses from her failure in Kentucky. The taste of Bourbon still lingered harsh in her mouth from months ago when their eyes met. He watched them with fierce, suspicious eyes, glowing from a face that was dark in the shadows. She saw that his head was shaved, but the collar of his black coat turned up to keep him warm against the cold night air. The words that he said to her rang in her ears. _“You have a chance, girl. Get out.”_ It was exactly what she intended to do.   
  
      “Natalia Romanova. Winter Soldier.” He nodded to each of them in turn. “Please get in.”   
  
      “We don’t seem to have a whole lot of choice, do we?” James said.   
  
      “Not really, but I prefer to keep things civil.” The man in the car said. “My name is Agent Fury, and I am here to speak to you on behalf of S.H.I.E.L.D.”

  
      They did not make it far. A hail of bullets perforated the front bumper as they drove.  
  
      “Down!” Agent Fury yelled. Natasha ducked, pulling James with her. The car swerved as the driver dodged an oncoming truck. “Did you leave a note?” Fury asked, pulling a gun from under the seat.   
  
      “We should have had twenty-four hours before they noticed we left.” Natasha said.  
  
      “Well,” Fury said as the driver slammed on the breaks, “they noticed.” He watched Natasha and James ready their weapons. “This will go a whole lot better for you both if you don’t try to shoot me.” He added.   
  
      “Wasn’t planning on it.” James said. The car slowed and rounded the corner of a warehouse. Agent Fury grabbed a radio.   
  
      “Foxtrot to Persephone. Come in.”   
  
      “Persephone to Foxtrot. Over.” A woman’s voice came over the radio, clear and commanding.   
  
      “Got the package. Interrupted during delivery. Need evac at Warehouse 7. Over.” Fury said.    
  
      “On their way. Over.”   
  
      “Over and out.” Agent Fury said before throwing the door open and sprinting toward the cover of the building.   
  
      Natasha spared one moment to meet James’s eyes before following him. The two took advantage of the silence to survey the surroundings. The building appeared abandoned, steeped in shadows and cobwebs. They both knew appearances could be deceiving. Agent Fury walked ahead of them, careful and sure.

        
      The explosion rocked the building to its foundation. They rode the vibrations like aftershocks of an earthquake.   
  
      “Get to the roof.” Agent Fury called to them over echoes of the blast and the ringing in their ears.   
  
      They started on the stairs as a team of HYDRA agents filed in through the smoking hole in the wall. The intent was to capture, not to kill. Natasha saw it in their eyes and in the half-hearted way they fought. She smiled to herself and then to James. This was child’s play.   
  
      She looked back to the ground and what she saw there dropped her heart into her gut like a corpse. Pierce entered the warehouse. He wore the same black suit, vest, and helmet as the other agents, but Natasha knew from his gait and posture exactly who he was. In one move, the game became infinitely more complicated. She swallowed down the feelings, remembering what James taught her about emotions. The last one she allowed herself to feel came from looking at James himself.   
  
      They took the stairs two at a time, choosing retreat over combat. There would be time for that another day. On the ground, an agent handed Pierce a weapon that Natasha recognized not a moment too soon.   
  
      “Get off the stairs.” She yelled, her voice hoarse with desperation. Pierce aimed at the support for the structure holding them up, not at their bodies. She leapt into the air, feeling the stairs give out beneath her. She clung to a railing that had not fallen, her feet dangling, uselessly below. To her right, she saw Agent Fury looking down as well. Blood dripped onto the concrete floor three stories blow them.   
  
      “Are you okay?” She asked him. He nodded, not turning to face her. Natasha pulled herself to an exposed pipe and tested it to see if it could hold her weight. It was strong. With the balance that she built on pointe, she crossed it to the wooden slats of the third floor. From her vantage point, she searched for James in the rubble. The metal arm glistened in the dim light as he retreated into the shadows. He glanced up and her and placed one finger to his lips.   
  
      She watched him work, taking out one agent after another in quick succession. He struck before they knew where he was and slipped back into nothingness before their breathing stopped. His aim was perfect. She saw the beauty, the artistry, in it. From her third-floor seat, there was little that Natasha could do but watch.   
Pierce appeared next to her. He pulled himself up over the side of the floor with more difficulty and less grace than Natasha had, but she admired his determination.   
  
      “Are you going to shoot me, Pierce?” She asked, a smile fighting its way onto her face.   
  
      “One of my daughters already died tonight.” He said, removing his helmet and placing it between them. “By defecting, you killed the other one yourself. There is no point in shooting you.”   
  
      Natasha knew that leaving HYDRA would mean betrayal to Pierce. It did not matter. Natasha took a breath and watched the face of the man who saved her from eternal infancy. He gave her shelter and a new start. She felt gratitude. She saw the face of a killer and felt recognition, familiarity, solidarity. She saw the face of a man who would never let her go and she felt sick. She would make the same choice a million times. She would always abandon Pierce.  
  
      “How did Annie die?” Natasha asked.   
  
      “She said she wanted to be brave, like you.” Pierce said. Natasha noticed that he was shaking.   
  
      “Then let me be brave, Pierce.” Natasha said. Pierce nodded. He drew the tranquilizer gun from his belt. It was large enough for big game. Natasha saw the decision in Pierce’s eyes just as he aimed.   
  
      “No!” She yelled. “James!” James looked at her just as the shot hit its target. James fell, incapacitated, and was swarmed by HYDRA agents who crawled over him like a colony of ants. Agent Fury wrestled Natasha toward the roof. She went willingly, feeling the fight drain from her muscles.   


  
  
      The chopper descended, blowing the hair away from Natasha’s face and cooling the sweat on her forehead. Natasha saw Agent Fury in the light from the helicopter. The left side of his face was bathed in blood. A shard of wood protruded from his left eye. Natasha noted that, apart from the injury itself, he exhibited no evidence that he was in pain at all.  Once inside the helicopter, he batted the medic away.   
  
      A middle-aged woman with sharp, angular features  directed her attention to him. “Agent, I expect a full report upon arrival. You must also allow the doctor to treat you this time. That is an order. She turned to Natasha and extended a hand“ Good evening. I am Director Carter. Thank you for joining us, Ms. Romanov.”   
  
      “Thank you for your assistance, Director Carter.” Natasha said, the words feeling hollow in her mouth.   
  
      “I understand that your partner has been captured by HYDRA.” Director Carter said. ”Her mouth made a thin line as she finished speaking.   
  
      “Yes, ma’am.” Natasha said. Director Carter nodded grimly.   
  
      “It wasn’t your fault, you know.” She said. “You should know that this is not the first time I have had this conversation about James Buchannan Barnes. The difference is, this time we will get him back.”   
  
  
  
      In her mind, she heard his voice as strong and clear as it had been on the first day of her training.   
  
_“If you start thanking me for helping you up, you’re going to say it a lot. Wait until I have done something you’re grateful for.”_  
  
      As they flew away, Natasha spared one last look at the wreckage of the warehouse and whispered, “James Buchannan Barnes. Thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “As if you could kill time without injuring eternity.” ― Henry David Thoreau, Walden


	10. EPILOGUE-- "“Scars have the strange power to remind us that our past is real.”

**2014**  
 **The Soldier**  
  
      The Soldier knew nothing but the mission. There were incidentals: languages, locations, all the necessities that were poured into his brain each time they pulled him from the cryo chamber like emerging from a cocoon.   
  
      He sought out something he could not name. A missing piece that was torn out of his mind each time he sat in the chair where the cruel metal fingers raked through his memory. He reported to a man whose face he knew. He obeyed the man even though there were deep creases on along his forehead and next to his mouth that should not have been there, and his hair was so much greyer than it was supposed to be. His name was Pierce. The soldier trusted him implicitly, completely. The Soldier hated him.  
   
      Sitting at the kitchen table, in a chair that he knew, he felt his body relax. He felt home.   
  
      “You want some milk?” Pierce asked. The soldier did not reply. He did not remember what it was to want. “The mission has changed. The time table is limited.” Pierce went on. The Soldier understood. He could comprehend the mission.   
  
      Pierce shot his housekeeper. The Soldier remained silent.

 

**2014**   
**Natasha**

      Her secrets were out. With the press of a button, Natasha shouted every word in the endless databanks of S.H.I.E.L.D. into the world. It was irretrievable and inescapable, but it was also incomplete.  
  
      In a dusty basement underneath Warehouse 7, the files containing the truth of Natalia Romanova’s origin and history were kept in paper and ink. Deemed too precious to risk a leak, S.H.I.E.L.D. hid them away from the world.   
  
      Now, Natasha sorted through them, one finger trailing down the page, across decades of history. The last entry had been made by Director Carter herself, in 1974. Although forty year had passed since the time of the document’s creation, Natasha appeared no older than thirty.   
__  
It is with a heavy heart that I conclude that James Buchannan Barnes is irretrievable at this time. We must direct our efforts toward helping those who can be helped until further evidence of his whereabouts come to light. He will never be absent from our memories or our prayers.  
Director Peggy Carter, S.H.I.E.L.D.

      Natasha slammed the folder closed. The words filled her with the same anger and loss that they had four decades ago. With renewed determination, she left the warehouse with her files.   
  
  
-  
  
      She found Steve Rogers and Sam Wilson at the graveyard. Fury stood over his own grave, offering Steve and Sam a place on his next mission. She wondered how many times she would watch him escape death and walk away as if nothing had happened.   
  
      “You should be honored, that’s about as close as he gets to saying thank you.” She said.   
  
      “You going with him?” Steve asked. She contemplated it for the briefest moment, before a resounding no escaped her. The golden arrow swinging on a chain around her neck pointed her in a different direction. She had something more important to do. She handed Steve the file on the Winter Soldier.   
  
      “I called in a few favors from Kiev.” She said. It was a lie. Steve smiled. Her file was placed neatly inside. He would find it after she left.   
  
      She walked away, knowing that for once, somebody had a chance at finding James.   


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you from the bottom of my heart for reading. 
> 
> “Scars have the strange power to remind us that our past is real.” ― Cormac McCarthy, All the Pretty Horses


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